The Curiosity Killers Read Online Free PDF Page B

were?”
    Ambrose nodded.
    “I want to get rid of the universities, that’s for certain. This side can’t be able to begin their own manufacturing infrastructure again, and inventions culled from research is the surest way for them to get back on their feet,” Claudio said. “The problem there is that would negate Doctor Vere’s laboratory, the very spot you figured out your little gearbox here.”
    “What if his were the only one?” Ambrose asked. “Or perhaps time self-corrects and the doctor still invents the thing, still leaves it out plain as day for me to cadge, but he’s got a…oh, I don’t know, mayhap ’e’s workin’ for you in private industry or some such. That’s possible, innit?” Ambrose raised his eyebrows, waiting for Claudio to reply. When he didn’t, Ambrose grew agitated. “See, mate, my theory’s ’at a paradox, what you describe there, that ain’t possible, not as such.” He made a sphere with his hands. “World won’t let it, ya see. So no danger o’ me not bein’ able to make this, ’cause it’s already been done. Yeah?”
    Claudio shook his head. “No, no, no, not yeah , you simpleton. If I’m unmaking and changing all sorts of things back there, God only knows what might self-correct.”
    “No, I s’pect only the time travel itself would self-correct,” Ambrose replied. “Not things unrelated-like.”
    “You’re giving me a migraine.”
    Ambrose felt a pang of concern. “You want some menthol drops, guv? They do wonders for the ol’ noggin, they do. That what me gran always used to give me.”
    “And clearly it did wonders for your intellect,” Claudio said. “Shut up and get the thing ready for testing.”
    “You want we should find a recruit to—”
    “On me,” Claudio cut in. “We’re testing it on me.”
    Ambrose drew back, his eyes wide as he stared at his boss. It was then he realized common menthol drops were insufficient to repair what maladies resided in Claudio Florence’s brain.

    Thursday, August 30, 1888, London, England
    Claudio’s eyes were shut, but his nose was already assaulted. Sharp, sooty stenches assailed him—not mere smells, no, these assaults to his senses were stenches , hot and bestial—and he knew before opening his eyes that the process worked. It was coal and it was manure and nothing in the clean and tidy gardens of his southern compound just inland from Myrtle Beach. There it was salty sea air, singed car exhaust, and exotic flowers he imported from South America. Here…horses. Lots and lots of horses, and their hoof beats increased in volume from all directions, along with…no, he was still back in Ambrose’s laboratory, because that was his voice, wasn’t it?
    “Good clean fish es !” the voice rang out, always emphasizing the last syllable of its throaty cry. “Good hot breads ! Good clean fish es !”
    Why was Ambrose telling him about bread and—oh. It wasn’t Ambrose. The tone was lighter, younger, though the accent was the same. Beneath him, Claudio could feel wetness seeping into his clothes, and there was a hard lump on the back of his head. He hoped it was something under him on the ground and not that he’d been injured and was now in the midst of developing a firm knot of swelling there.
    He let his eyes float open at last, and above him was sky, gray and unforgiving and on the verge of rain. Framing this desolate air were buildings coated in black from the visible smokestacks belching inky smoke. Claudio coughed. There was tightness in his lungs from the mere idea of inhaling that foul darkness.
    He sat up and spotted the food vendor.
    “Good clean fish es !” The boy was very young and very dirty, his clothing all colors identical to the sky and the smoke. Around him were other salespeople—sales children , in point of fact—holding out wilted flowers or dirty rolls. Claudio imagined trying to wrap his teeth around one of them and losing a crown in the process.
    “ Soup only a pence! Soup